


This Cannot Last

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, Goodbyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:05:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2213421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Arrival, Jacob and Shepard both know what's coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Cannot Last

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: jacob/shep deciding together that her turning herself in is the right thing to do (from [officialjacobtaylor](http://officialjacobtaylor.tumblr.com/) on tumblr)

“This cannot last.”

The words are so soft they barely register through the comfortable warmth her body next to his. Despite their closeness, there is little contact—just the barest brush of his hand over her hip and her toes resting against his feet. Then the blankets tug against him, shifting as Shepard sits up, and the bed dips briefly before she stands. He blinks his eyes open, hazy half-formed dreams slipping away as he watches her stand before the aquarium. Her hands are clasped tightly behind her, tension rigid through her shoulders.

 _Us?_ he wants to ask, but Shepard’s always shot from the hip. Figuratively speaking. Her own barriers could rival a matriarch’s had she been born with biotics.

He waits, but the silence deepens until it’s thick and suffocating.

She has this—this _gift_ he’s not sure she really understands, a talent for seeing to the heart of someone and earning their trust.

Feral Jack would have willingly killed for Shepard from the moment they broke out of Purgatory, but after Pragia she would die—no, he corrects himself, looking at how the pale blue light plays over her features, the sharpness of her chin and the knife-edge of her cheekbones—she would _live_ for Shepard. After destroying the Reaper base, Jack is willing to live _gloriously_.

And he, after finally laying old ghosts to rest, can think of building his own family.

“What cannot last?” He sits up, still in bed but watching.

Her gaze does not leave the fish. They swim hypnotic patterns but the normal meditative effect must be lacking. “All of this. Not after destroying that batarian system. Three hundred thousand lives.”

“You spoke with Admiral Hackett?”

“Yes. Regardless of the Reaper threat, those are still three hundred thousand lives. A whole system. Not just a single colony.”

He cannot speak _Mindoir_ to her, but they both hear its echo. More than one nightmare this time. Or perhaps an extra weight on an old burden.

So he swings his legs out of bed, padding barefoot beside her. “We are not Cerberus.”

“We are Alliance.” She closes her eyes, exhaling long and slow, and he wonders how he ever missed the gauntness on her face. “And I will always do my duty.”

 _No matter what the cost_. Strangely, a memory flashes before his eyes.

 

* * *

 

They came back to the Normandy to find everyone gone, with EDI unchained and Joker flinging accusations—

She stood, calm and still. Fully armored and unflinching.

She nodded. Once. Then walked past the rows of empty chairs and the suddenly too-quiet command center to enter the elevator.

At the time, he assumed even the famous Commander Shepard needed time alone, to grieve or vent according to her nature. He hadn’t known her then, or at least not _understood_ her.

But she returned quickly, without a single blotch on her face or tear in her eye. Still stony as she briskly set coordinates for the geth heretic ship.

“Commander, if you need more time—“

She interrupted him with a startled laugh. “No, Mr Taylor. I just fed my fish.” She smiled, barely more than a curve of her lips. “Someone has to watch out for them.” Her lips turned down. “I will always do my duty by them.”

She won Legion’s loyalty on that mission.

And then they saved the crew.

Every single one of them.

Even those damn fish.

 

* * *

 

And now, in the present, watching her watch the fish with dry, unblinking eyes, he _knows_ what’s coming.

“You’re turning yourself in.”

“Yes.”

He rests his chin against her shoulder, arms circling her. She does not melt against him, does not press her cheek to his—and he _knows_ what’s coming.

This cannot last.


End file.
